


New Start

by jack_inaboxx



Series: crack in the glass [23]
Category: Original Work, Star Trek, Star Trek Online
Genre: among others, warning that this is not pretty at the start
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:49:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24563401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jack_inaboxx/pseuds/jack_inaboxx
Summary: He still does not remember. He does not think he ever will.
Series: crack in the glass [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774129





	New Start

It’s dark here. 

It’s _always_ dark here. 

The room is too small, and too big, at the same time. Empty and too-full of painful, brutal implements. Most of the blood on them is his. He’d stopped being cold…. he’s not sure how long ago. Months, he thinks. 

Feels like it’s been years since he saw the light of the sun- of _any_ sun. 

(Some small part of him, whatever remains from before _here,_ when he still remembered his name, tries to give him a memory of it. It’s blurry, shimmering, and then gone.)

(He misses the warmth.) 

By now, he doesn’t really feel the ache from his limbs. He’s been hanging by his wrists in the middle of the room for weeks. Any muscle mass he once had is gone. He’s skin and bones, and barely that. He looks more corpse than man. 

This, too, has long since stopped bothering him. 

His sight is blurred, but he still notices the increased activity of his captors. They rush about, in no apparent system. He wonders, fuzzily, what’s happening. 

The scene changes. 

It’s dark here. 

It’s _always_ dark here. 

They mostly ignore him these days. The blood on the tools is long dried; the bruises are vivid, painful green, but there are fewer and fewer as time passes. He’s hungry. This is nothing new, but it bothers him- his body is starting to shut down on him. Painful. Is this what they want?

No. He’s gotten very good at telling what they want, and right now, what they want is nothing related to him. 

He is going to die here. They will forget him, until one day his bones clatter to the floor of this little room, or until they bring another captive here, and discover, with surprise, that he is still hanging here. Perhaps, still alive- perhaps, dead. 

(He has forgotten everything from Before. All he knows is this room. If one were to look at him now, they would see a scrawny, dying Romulan, too-thin, with dead eyes. There is not much left of him.) 

The scene changes. 

It’s dark here. 

It’s always dark here. 

What it isn’t, always, is this loud. There is shouting, and disruptor fire, and he thinks people are dying. 

That’s a lot more than normal, he notes, vaguely, but the thought drifts out of his head with little reaction. He doesn’t react to much of anything anymore. It’s too much effort wasted, for the little nutrient intake he gets. 

With the sluggish self-awareness he has left, he notes that this is it. He’s dying. He wishes that he could have seen the stars, one more time, to remember what they look like. 

Just as his awareness fades, he hears voices- something other than the rumble-growl of his captors. Something about being safe. Or maybe saved. 

There is not much left of him to save.

The scene changes. 

It’s dark here. 

It’s alw-

…. it’s not dark here. It hurts, the intensity of the light, and he makes a sound. Somebody nearby moves, and he passes out, because he hurts, so much, and it had become a reflex when he still had enough undamaged nerves to feel that pain. 

(Why can he feel pain? That doesn’t make sense.) 

The scene… changes? 

It takes some time for him to stop passing out as soon as someone gets near to him. The first time he manages to open his eyes, he nearly blinds himself, and screams himself hoarse before passing out again, the sheer intensity causing him enough pain that his body gives out. 

(He misses not feeling pain.)

A change. A big one, this time. 

He’s walking on his own now, and lights don’t hurt so much anymore, though he still gravitates towards darker atmospheres. 

Apparently, these people, the people that crew this ship, had found him in an Orion Syndicate prison, mostly dead (but not _all_ dead) and had nursed him back to life. 

They seem somewhat dismayed by his complete lack of knowledge, aside from a _highly_ alarming affinity for accumulating secrets and a troublesome ability for knowing all the weak points on the body of just about any species he runs across. It even alarms _him_. 

It makes him wonder if maybe he had been some kind of intelligence officer. 

More changes, as time passes. He regains skills, abilities, a few memories- plenty of memories. But nothing as to who he was. 

The doctor (when he finally allows them near him, after his sudden remembrance of those espionage-esque skills) tells him he probably won’t remember them. 

They chose a name for him, before he woke properly. Tobak. He’s told it means ‘forgotten’ in some tongue or another. He doesn’t remember. Ironic, isn’t it? Ironic, but fitting. 

And besides, he likes it. He keeps it. Embraces it, adopts it for his own. 

Whoever he was before, he is Tobak now- a refugee, of sorts. Out of place, but comfortable on this battered little ship. 

Six months into his stay on the ship- his waking stay, that is- he meets Selkerk. Selkerk commands the ship. For reasons none of the crew will explain to him, they refuse to accept a new Captain. Selkerk fills the role of command, but not the title. He doesn’t seem to mind. 

Selkerk tells him more about what happened when he was asleep, about the strange things he muttered about and the way he thrashed in his sleep, not in pain, but in complete, utter terror. 

Tobak tells him that’s strange. He doesn’t remember being afraid of anything. 

By the time Selkerk shows up, Tobak has perfected his mask of indifferent, sarcastic aloofness. It doesn’t drive away the crew, somehow, which simultaneously distresses and reassures him. 

(Selkerk sees through it immediately. Tobak only clings to it all the harder.) 

Somehow, despite all this, despite his chaos, his rough edges and jagged, empty gaps, Selkerk becomes the closest friend he has. The crew, even, seems to accept him as part of their family. 

It…. baffles him, but he…. it makes him feel warm. Inside, that is, like a blanket wrapped around his heart. It’s weird, but… he likes it. 

Another six months of this, and he’s called to the bridge. 

There are no words. Selkerk just guides him to the Captain’s chair, smiles at him, and gestures for him to sit down. 

(He almost bolts, then and there, because so much _trust_ and it’s given to him, and- that’s a lot. They don’t even know him- _he_ doesn’t even know him-) 

He sits. 

The bridge is quiet. 

He’s stiff, at first, all the eyes on him, but he relaxes, gradually, and a feeling of _rightness_ sets in. 

He realizes that all those eyes are full of pride, contentment. 

And then he understands- these people haven’t been unaccepting of any new Captains. It’s the Captains that haven’t accepted _them_. They’re unique, and they do things their own fashion, a far cry from ‘accepted’ guidelines. 

He hasn’t tried to change them. He just slotted neatly into place in their group, like he belongs there. 

He _does_ belong there. 

The stars on the viewscreen are beautiful. He watches them, tells the helm to lay in a course for the nearest uncharted system. The approval he senses sets him at ease, and he _knows_. This is right. He smiles at the screen. 

He wants to see what’s out there. 

“Engage,” he says. 


End file.
